Airborne
by Alena White
Summary: Caron, the daughter of Michael Fisher, stumbles upon a strange cottage with her fiance, unaware of its fiery occupant and the deal her betrothed is about to make.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello Dear Story Visitor. I have always been a fan of Dianna Wynne Jones, and I can recall stumbling upon her section in my school library and trying to devour every book I could in between studying for tests and trying to get out of chores at home. I placed this story in both worlds of Howl's Moving Castle, the book and the movie. Though I am trying to write it according to the books format. Thank you for reading. Please Enjoy._

**Chapter One:**

In Which Caron Finds A Drawing.

Caron Fisher was an only child, which left her with the clean up of her father's old home. She had never quite learned what her father had done for a living, but it left a disastrous mess. Grimy substances stained the counters, and scorch marks littered the walls. Hundreds of vials were falling out of the rotting cabinets. His bedroom and sitting room were the only two that appeared livable. It had been years since she had been back home. Caron had always flown her father out to her apartment in Liverpool for holidays as it was closer to the remainder of their family. Many times she had begged him to come live with her, but he would always refuse.

"I like it out here," he would say. Then look out the window to the hills beyond his cottage and laugh as though recalling a fond memory. "My memories are here. I want to stay with them."

To which Caron could only nod her head and submit to his whims. It was her father after all.

As Caron packed the pictures into a cardboard box she came across a strange picture with a family of three. A man, and wife, it seemed had recently been in a disagreement, and a babe quite content. They stood in front of a fireplace. Caron found it odd that her father would have such an image, especially of people she had never met, but she placed it in the box along with the rest of the family pictures. In the room next to her, the dining room, she could hear her fiance arguing with the mop.

"Fine then," she heard him complain, "don't clean the floor."

"Try the mop in the closet by the table, that old one won't clean the floor no matter how hard you scrub."

"I thought this was the mop from the closet," he protested.

Knowing that women were better suited at finding the proper things, Caron left her father's sitting room and picked her steps carefully around the purple and blue splatters of syrupy grease on the dining room floor. She walked around the kitchen table, though the multitude of papers made her believe he had used it more as a desk than for its intended purposes. She nearly slipped in on of the grease puddles, but stabled herself by gripping one of the chairs. Caron shook her head with a sigh and opened the old cupboard. There it was, just as she had said. The mop that would be able to clean the floor, sitting just inside the closet.

"I don't suppose you'll want to toss me that?" Emeric asked. He looked quite helpless, and laughable, as he clung to a rag mop with a dull grey apron tied about his waist.

"If I must," Caron smiled. She held onto the table chair for balance before tossing the good mop across the dining room to Emeric. While the mop was still in flight, in betwixt Caron and Emeric, the handle nudged the top section of a stack of papers, upsetting them and sending a mess of parchment drifting onto the grime covered floor. Utterly horrified at her inability to properly throw a mop, Caron worked her way around the mess of books and papers until she was able to reach the mess she had just caused.

All of the papers were littered with sketches of hills. Caron collected them, recalling each piece of her father's land as the artist hand rendered it. The creek she had frequented as a child, her favorite climbing tree. The pasture where the flowers would grown, except in one patch. For some reason the ground was always quite brown and even the grass was afraid to grow. Upon picking up the last parchment Caron spied a hill, once she knew well, as it was just beyond the flowers. Rather than the lush grass alone, the artist had placed a old cottage colored in with charcoal so that it appeared dark in color. "I can't recall ever seeing this," she mumbled to herself.

"What was that dear?" Emeric asked.

"This drawing, it's of a small house I don't remember, but they drew it on the hill beyond the garden."

"I thought it was empty past the garden."

"It is." Caron folded her arms and contemplated the drawing. A few lines were trailing from the chimney. No date was scribbled into any of the corners, only the initials M.F. Her father must have sketched this before he grew to weak to do anything but lie in bed. "Shall we go have a look? It has been a short while since I've walked the path." In truth it had been more than a short while. Caron had not been to the old hill beyond the garden since she was twelve. That had been the last time she had even explored the grounds. The day her father had told her a strange thing. One to do this day she had never believed in.

"Why not," Emeric laughed, "I'm tired of looking at this room."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**  
>In Which A Cottage Takes Flight<p>

Caron walked ahead of Emeric, her steps with purpose more than leisure. There was something strange about that cottage in the drawing. She ignored the blotches in the garden where the grass was afraid to grow. Caron had to slow her pace to wait on Emeric, he had never been the athletic type and the hill was steep. After reaching the top, Caron left Emeric to his dramatics of breathing as though he had just climbed the world's tallest mountain.  
>"Next time dear," he huffed, "Tell me you're wanting to run. I'll politely decline."<br>"It has my attention," Caron called. The small black cottage was sitting alone in the grass. A thin wisp of smoke barely trickling from the chimney. "He could have drawn this today." No vines along the charcoal brick, and no flowers surrounding the front door. Caron walked up to the door. She did not have time to wait. Something inside told her the cottage may not be there if she did not hurry. How silly a notion that was! Cottages could not move.  
>"Well isn't this a...nice little home," Emeric mused.<br>"But where did it come from?" Caron asked.  
>Her father's will had said nothing of the cottage, only that his home and the surrounding land was to be left to Caron Fisher. The brick around the door looked worn. Scant scorch marks added life to the charcoal colored brick. The bricks themselves were rather uneven, no two seemed cut the same. "It seems you have your own story," Caron whispered to the house. "Though how you stay together I don't know." Noting that it lacked an outside handle, Caron pushed the shabby door inward. A wretched creaking issued from the whole house. Caron was left to assume it had been abandoned, only the oldest homes creaked like that. She stepped inside.<br>There was a staircase in the back, although anyone would have a dreadful time getting to it. The floor was covered in layers of dust and strange nick-knacks. Leather bound books were laying uneven on a shelf, a browned human skull being used as a bookend. Strange, Caron thought. It had a similar mess to her father's home. Underneath the layers of dust there appeared to be colored syrupy grime. Choosing her steps carefully Caron made her way to the center of the room. She ran her fingers across the soot covered edge of the fireplace. Then absently dusted her fingers onto her pants. Were she only taller she could have reached up and touched the low beamed ceiling. "What a strange place."  
>"I second that opinion," Emeric laughed. "Though I hope we don't have to clean this one as well."<br>Caron began to prod around the table. Turning over stacks of papers and flipping through the pages of books. Her curiosity did not let he turn away to see the purple sparks thrown from the fireplace, or the strange eyes that peered at her from under a half-burnt log on the grating. A breeze swirled in from the chimney, throwing soot onto a wooden chair propped only a leg's length from the fireplace. Caron twisted her nose at the smell. She left the table and made her way up the staircase. At the top was a darkened hallway.  
>Light curled under the edges of a old window. Caron tried to pull the window open, but after feeling for the hinges realized it opened the other direction. Embarrassment flooded at that gaffe. Caron gave the two plain doors of the window a light shove. The wood choose not to budge. Caron pushed her sleeves up, and popped her neck. "You will open," she stated. She shoved as hard as she could manage. The two doors open easily, pretending they had not been stuck the moment before. Caron was barely able to get a good look of her father's pasture from the second floor of the cottage when the home began to shake.<br>The home seemed to sigh. The walls bent ever so slightly inward and a loud squeal came from below. Caron tried to grip onto the window frame, but her feet slipped out from under her as the house jerked. "Earthquake?" Caron tried to scramble to her feet and get downstairs. Emeric had been down there, perhaps he had run outside. It was an old home. The idea that it was caving in did not seem farfetched. More likely than an earthquake. A final jump and Caron went tumbling down the staircase. She slammed into the wall across from the staircase, and cut her eyes the poor foundation while rubbing her elbow. "Ow," she grumbled to the walls. "Emeric?" She called. No answer came back to her.  
>The foundation steadied. The chair near the fireplace had been turned over. It was the only clue the house had ever been shaking. Caron ignored the filth on the floor surprised when she did not find the piles slippery. She grabbed hold of the strange knob on the inside of the shabby front door and threw it open. Caron stepped outside, and was forced to cling to the door frame. The world was beneath her. Her father's home barely a brown dot in the green pastures surrounding.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**  
>In Which The Fire Speaks<p>

Caron stumbled backwards, away from the open door and the expanse of empty air now in between herself and the ground. She wanted very much to believe she had hit her head to hard on the wall when she fell down the staircase, but that was not it. A feeling, small but enough to notice, was sitting in the pit of her stomach. This was normal for this strange patchwork cottage. "Emeric," Caron called again. "He must have walked out before the house decided to defy gravity." She decided. "Maybe he'll call the Air Force to get me down from this thing." The idea of clinging to the door frame again and jumping to a ladder did not sound appealing. She could just live in the house, it did have everything she needed. It would work out as long as she didn't look down.

The thought occurred to Caron that she was sitting on the filthy floor, but it was lain to rest when the fireplace crackled. Thin waves of smoke wafted from the new log on the fireplace. The fire was strangely staying underneath the log as if clinging to the burnt fragments laying on the soot. "Who could have started that?" Caron asked. She stood up and walked towards it, inadvertently tripping over a black cat. "And where did you come from?" Caron looked at the old tom cat, but it only opened an eye towards her and settled back down for his nap.

A blue feathered bird warbled as it sloppily flew from the table to the bookshelf. What a strange home indeed, Caron thought. There had been no signs of life in the home until it had flown away. Yet now there was a cat and a bird, and a shy fire. The wood must have been damp for the fire to be so low. It was chilly, perhaps she should close the upstairs window. She shuffled her feet to the staircase, carving a walkway into the dust layered on the floor.

Caron crossed her arms. Everything rushed by in a blue. Greens, browns, even the sky seemed an endless distorted abyss. The window upstairs was far easier to close than it had been to open. Heights made her queasy. She walked back downstairs.

The fire was not doing much to heat an airborne house. "You are quite lazy," Caron grumbled. She was forced to hover over the grate for her hands to receive warmth. "What sort of fire only heats this much?"

"I don't see you moving a house," a voice cracked.

Caron looked around the room. The bird was wildly flapping its wings, disturbing papers on the desk. Though it seemed to always have trouble flying. The tom cat had yet to move from his position. Caron promptly took a few steps back to glance towards the stairwell. "Hello? Is someone there?" With no answer, she shook the thought away and went back to warming her hands.

The fire popped. Caron threw another log on. Perhaps two would fair better than one. The small fire crawled onto one of the logs. a tinge of purple danced along top before fading into red-orange. "You're getting there," Caron whispered, "though a warm room would be nice." She turned and went over to the table, fiddling with the papers again. The owner surely left their mark somewhere in the house.

As Caron glanced at one of the parchments, filled with strange symbols, words began to appear beneath them. Slightly taken aback, but convinced it was the light dancing from the fireplace, Caron placed it back on the table. "What does one do when trapped in a flying house?" She asked the walls. It should have been more of a shock, but it was not. She dusted cobwebs off a broom propped against the table and started dusting off a pile of nick-knacks in the floor.

In the pile there was a strange golden plate with four different colors dabs of paint. Caron shooed a ladybug from it and tossed it to the side.

"You needed that."

Caron whipped around. The voice had been right there. "Who's there?" She demanded of the house.

The fireplace crackled to life as and the fire rose higher. Only being in a flying house helping Caron to believe that she espied what appeared to be eyes dancing on the flames of the fire, and a mouth. Small, flaming arms were curled around the edges of the log. "Why do I always let weird ones in?" the fire sighed. It sank bank in between the two logs. Purple and blue flames licked the bark.

Calm. Caron had only been frightened at what she did not know. With the fire visibly speaking to her, she only felt calm. "You let me in?"

"Of course, you think I let just anyone in here?"

"Then did you also let Emeric in? The man with curly hair."

"Him, oh he," the fire crackled. His face distorted. He rose higher, the logs sizzling. "You weren't here, I can't say."

"I only left the room to go upstairs," Caron protested, "I could have heard anything."

"Upstairs," the fire cackled. "There's only this room."

"No. I walked over there, up that staircase and opened a window." Caron pointed towards the staircase, it was there for sure. She had walked on it.

The fire crawled forward on the logs, crackling as he did. It leaned over the edge, just enough that a few glowing embers floated from the fireplace and onto the dusty floor. "Dreadful, unappreciative, horrid thing." The fire yelled. He flames surged clear up the chimney. The reddish-orange turning into shades of blue, and purple. "As if hiding this wasn't hard enough!"

"I didn't do anything with it," Caron held her arms up in surrender.

"Not you," the fire spat. He sank back down, hiding in between the logs. "Selfish man. You never appreciate all that I do."

Caron sat the chair next to the fire place back on all four legs and sat down. "So, you're the creature moving this castle."

"Fire demon," the fire corrected. "The great Calcifer!"

A cocky little fire, Caron thought. "Why is it we are flying now? You seemed quite content on the ground." It was only somewhat true. While the house had looked cozy, it was meant to move. Caron could feel it.

"Can't say. That's how curses work, you should know that."

"Then how can I find Emeric?"

"What do I get out of it?" Narrowed eyes peered over the edge of the log, staring intently.

"What do you want?" Caron asked. Deals and promises with demons. Precisely what her father had brought her up to stay away from. He had a long story about what happened when one selfish man had made a bargain with a fire demon. How nice that it was a fire demon trying to strike a bargain with her. "I can't do much. I'm only me."

"Shows what you know," the fire cracked. He slid up onto the top of the log. "How about you find me a safe place to rest? I have to make sure the house is safe before I can leave for a bit."

Caron thought of Calcifer's request. A safe place to put a house, that did not seem that hard. Her father's land was safe enough. If only she could find a way to get out of this house she could insure the land safe for Calcifer to place the house. She needed help finding Emeric; the fire was more than powerful enough to help her. "Okay," Caron nodded. "I agree."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four  
><strong>In Which Caron Fixes the Portal.

Having made a deal with Calcifer, the self-proclaimed great fire demon, did not change Caron's position much. There was never a shred of doubt that slipped in, or regret. She dusted off the table in the corner of the room and beat the bookshelf with the broom, upsetting the blue bird. She was searching for notes on the dial. It was her key to finding Emeric, her end of the deal could only be reached if she could fix the dial. Calcifer could tell her that much. The tom cat had crawled into the chair by the fireplace, happily sleeping most of the hours away.

"How useful," Calcifer remarked to the cat.

"Cats are like that," Caron said. She opened one of the leather bound books. Detailed 'spells' were scribbled down on how to make oneself irresistible or to change hair color. Caron placed the book of vain words back onto the shelf and lifted another. On the first page was scrawled 'household notes'. "Calcifer," Caron said, "Am I to believe a magical family lived here?"

"Who else would have a moving house?" He crawled on top of the logs, purple and blue flames spreading out, eating away at the charring wood.

"Someone afflicted with wanderlust. Maybe a deal with a demon?" Caron placed the household spell book back on the shelf. Magical families and flying houses, that fit together perfectly. She choose another book and flipped to a random page. She glanced down at the page. A spell for keeping weeds out of a garden, and extensive notes to control your emotions and keep your temper in check while making it. Notes for cleaning, notes for dealing with troublesome men. Reminders about negating spells of selfish men. Caron laughed. A wife definitely penned this book.

"We don't make deals with just anyone," Calcifer said.

Hours passed as Caron worked her way through every book on the shelf, disappointed that there was nothing on the dial. Perhaps she was looking for the wrong keyword. Surely this demon would not lie to her about the dial if he was getting something out of this deal as well. She started shifted through the papers on the table. Many of the parchments at the initials 'M.P.' while only were left unmarked. It grew colder as night came. "I can't find anything about the dial."

"He may have not wrote it down," the fire cracked.

"You couldn't have said that a few hours ago?" Caron grumbled. She tossed a log onto the grate for him.

"You seemed determined." He audibly feasted.

Caron lifted the dial from the table and turned it over in her hand. It look as though it belonged to something, but where the other pieces were would only remain a mystery in a house this filthy. "Can you not tell me anything about it?" Caron held the dial in front of her and walked to the middle of the room. Maybe it belonged somewhere in the house. Not above the fire place, nor at the staircase. The small kitchen had no need of any four color dials, it was only a sink and cabinet after all. Caron turned again, this time facing the doorway. She dropped her hands by her sides.

"Deals don't work like that." Calcifer shoved the last burning piece of wood into his fiery mouth.

Just to the right, near the shabby wooden excuse for a front door was a metal plating, rusted with age. Caron looked at the dial, and back to the door. She walked over to the door and dusted the rusted piece off with her hand. Using her finger to feel for the wheel on the back of the dial, Caron put it into place. Please work like you are supposed to, Caron thought. The resonating click sent a small breeze through the room. "That must be it," Caron stated. "Now what?"

She stepped away from the door, happy she had managed to put the two pieces together without too much of a hassle. Caron spun the dial. The black paint daub pointed to by a small golden arrow with the tip chipped off. Feeling quite proud of herself for the moment Caron turned to walk away from the door when she heard knocking.

The fire sizzled over the logs for a moment before spouting, "Kingsbury door."


End file.
